The Crow and the Wolf
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: A year had passed since the death of the Dragon Queen. A year had passed since his exile had begun. One night, this night, he could return to Winterfell, before the chains of command dragged him back to Castle Black. For indeed, what was duty but the death of love?


**The Crow and the Wolf**

Winterfell no longer felt like home.

Sitting in the castle's great hall, alone, and with a mug of beer, the revelation of that fact hit Jon Snow with the force of a battering ram. Granted, a sense of disconnect from Winterfell had existed since the day that Ned Stark had to explain that the Lady Catelyn wasn't actually his mother. That his blood connection to Robb was not as strong as the siblings that his adoptive mother had given birth to, and that given the nature of that blood, he would never be the Lord of Winterfell. Not a title he had sought, but it was a title he was reminded, however gently, that he could never have. He was Jon Snow. The Bastard. The stain on the cloak of Eddard Stark's honour, fated to practice archery and swordsmanship in the yard while the true men and women of the north partook in merriment. Bad enough that Winterfell have the reminder that even Eddard Stark's honour could bend, worse that he'd come from the loins of some southern tart their lord had bedded while at war.

And yet, he had still called this place home. Even on the day he had left for the Night's Watch, on the day he had seen his father alive for the last time, he had done so in the expectation that he would not be forever severed from his family. In years to come, he might return to Winterfell to find recruits for the Night's Watch, or his family might visit Castle Black. But that hadn't happened. What had happened was a series of wars that still marred the land, him becoming the 998th lord command of the Night's Watch, dying, losing the title, becoming king in the north, losing that title, and then becoming the 1000th lord commander of an order that numbered less than fifty, guarding a wall that had no real enemy to keep out anymore. So thus, on this night, as the North celebrated the coronation of Sansa I Stark, First of Her Name, Queen in the North, the Red Wolf, Rightful Ruler of the First Men, as winter had come after nine seasons rather than nine years, he sat, drank his mead, and wondered if home was something he could ever know.

"Jon."

He didn't hear the voice. He just sat there, cradling the tankard. He knew that he had little to gain from sitting here. The Night's Watch had been created to guard the realms of Men, but in the current clime of Westeros, it was more to protect the North, as it was now independent from those who bent the knee to a throne made of wood rather than iron. In essence, attending the anniversary of Sansa Stark's coronation was a mark of respect, nothing more.

"Jon."

But, he thought, as he sipped the mead, that wasn't the full story. Full story, or so he'd claimed to his builders, rangers, and stewards, was that he'd headed south to find more recruits. Desperate men and boys who might take solace in spending the rest of their lives at the edge of the world – safe, but without any chance of valour or renown. It had occurred to him that he might need to drum up tales of the possibility of the White Walkers returning, but-

"Jon!"

This time, he heard her voice. This time, he looked up. This time, seeing and hearing her, he got to his feet and lowered his head. "Your grace."

"Your grace," she repeated. "I'm still getting used to that."

Jon knew that she was lying, and that she was doing so on his behalf. Still, he appreciated the lie.

"May I?" she asked.

And he likewise appreciated that his sister by bond, if not by blood, would ask whether she could sit. Granted, she did sit down first, but still, words mattered in this world. Maybe not as much in what the Free Folk called "the True North," but still, they mattered. As did silence, as the two remaining children of Ned Stark sat opposite each other.

"So…" Sansa began.

"The crown fits you," Jon said.

Sansa gave him a small smile. It was a simple silver circlet, but it served its purpose. It was bereft of any heraldry, as was her cloak, but Jon suspected that maybe that was the point. The Northerners considered themselves a practical people, so the one who led them should be similarly free of such frivolities. Not that that stopped the people around them drinking, eating, and sneaking off to carry out whoring (no doubt a few bastards would be conceived tonight), but still…

"Jon?"

"Hmm?" He looked back at her, tearing his gaze away from the rest of the hall.

"Are you alright?"

He smiled. "Fine."

Her own smile faded. "Liar."

"I'm not lying."

"Father taught you many things Jon, but lying was never among them."

"You nevertheless learnt how to."

"Yes, I did." She looked away, and Jon knew exactly what she was thinking. "Still, telling lies goes hand in hand with sorting out lies, so…" She looked back at him. "Sometimes, when I'm on the throne, I think this crown should be yours."

"No," Jon murmured.

"You were king in the north for less than two years, and still, that makes your reign longer than mine. And if there was justice in the world, then-"

"No," Jon repeated. "I don't want it. I never wanted it. I don't want a southern throne, or a northern throne, or any throne."

"And yet you're lord commander."

"I am," Jon said. "Ruling a castle of less than fifty men, none of which have anything to do other than to tend to the wall, or hunt game in the forest."

"I suppose…" Sansa sighed. "I suppose that makes for time better spent than killing Wildlings and wights."

Jon remained silent. One might have thought so. But while half of the men under his command (if it could even be called "command" at this point) were happy to spend their days in isolation as an alternative to more severe punishment, the other half weren't. Mole's Town was gone, so the brothel wasn't a way to get their poison out. And even if the living had united against the dead, some among the living, among the black, were happy to spit on those who clad themselves in white. Who would whisper about their commander, who would regularly travel north to break bread with savages, and no doubt foster wolfbear children every time he did so. Not that Jon knew what a wolfbear was, but a decade ago, he hadn't known a lot of things. He had, as the woman who still haunted his dreams told him, known nothing.

"Jon?"

He could still see her in Sansa, he figured. The hair was similar enough. The independence too, albeit expressed in different ways.

"Jon, are you even here?"

He sipped his mead. "I'm here," he murmured. "For now."

"Yes, for one night, before you head north with whatever recruits you find."

He looked up at her. "I appreciate it you know. The supplies you keep sending."

She shrugged.

"And taking the risk you have, in letting me see…this place," he continued, the word "home" on the tip of his tongue, but not escaping his mouth.

"Risk?" Sansa asked.

"The risk of having the Queenslayer break bread with the Red Wolf."

Sansa looked at him.

"Word travels," Jon said. "In addition to everything else, I know that kingdoms six and one call me Queenslayer, for what I did to Qu…to Daenerys."

"Many use that as a term of praise," Sansa murmured.

"And there are those in the Reach, the Iron Islands, and lands beyond, who do not," Jon said. He glanced around the hall. "Some even among the North as well."

"That can't be," Sansa murmured. "After they saw what Daenerys did to King's Landing, they would resent your for it?"

"They resent me for it _because _of King's Landing," Jon said. Sansa had a blank look on her face, so he continued. "The South wronged the North. The North took vengeance against the South. I killed the woman who made that vengeance possible."

"On the backs of how many bodies?"

"Not so many that the most bloodthirsty men gave them a second glance," Jon murmured, his mind thinking back to that day. The sights. The screams. Above all else, the smell – the scent of burning flesh had stayed with him for many a night, especially as the fire crackled in front of him. "Father once said that the North was the land of honour, and the South the land of chivalry. Well, we know what happened on that day. Chivalry didn't stop the fire, and honour didn't stay the blades, and sometimes I wonder if they'll stay them long enough to leave this hall." He gave a grim smile before finishing the mead. "Still, that was then, and this is now, and I doubt the future will match the savagery of the past." He shoved the tankard aside. "So don't worry about it."

"Has it occurred to you that I do worry?" Sansa asked.

"Of course. But as one king to one queen, I'm ordering you not to."

"Ordering me?" the Red Wolf asked, a smile breaking out on her lips. "Those are big words from a…" She trailed off, and Jon knew what she'd been about to say. So, after a moment, she changed her tune. "It's funny," she murmured. "They call you Queenslayer, but none know that you had a greater claim to the throne than she did."

"Sansa-"

"Everyone in Westeros still thinks you're the bastard son of father, and-"

"I am," Jon said.

"Jon?"

"I'm Ned Stark's son," he said. "Not Rheagar's, and not Lyanna's. That's the truth we have to live by."

"Even if it means exile?"

"If it means peace. Westeros believes all the Targaryens are dead, and the realm will be better off for it."

"And of the North?" Sansa murmured. "Those who believe Eddard Stark fathered a bastard?"

Jon nodded, and Sansa made no objection. Eddard Stark had sacrificed his honour to give life to a lie, and the child upon whose forehead that lie was branded. Jon, for his part, had no doubt that the man who'd raised him would prefer that lie to continue if lives were spared in the process.

_Lies for lives, _he thought, letting his gaze and thoughts wander once more. To the exit of the hall, where once he'd stood. Where he'd encountered the Kingslayer, who had similarly been shamed for killing his liege. At the time, Jon had little love for the man, but now…

It occurred to him that he and Jaime Lannister had made similar choices. One had stabbed Aerys Targaryen through the back, while the other had stabbed Daenerys Targaryen through the heart. In the end, they'd both saved lives. That, Jon thought, was the highest honour anyone could achieve. It was why he would tolerate his fellow watchmen making remarks behind his back, because until the watch was ended, the Wildlings could never become an enemy again. He didn't want that. Tormund, for all his boasting, didn't want that. When he saw their villages, when he saw their children, he knew that they didn't want that. And seeing the people here, lords, ladies, and the smallfolk outside, he knew that none of them wanted that either. And if it meant dying a second time and not returning to the world of the living, he would pay that price.

"My lady?"

Jon looked up, as did Sansa. A large, fat man had walked over.

"Lord Manderley," Sansa said.

He bowed. "Your grace," he said, before looking at Jon. "And the former king in the north – saviour of the living, and slayer of the Dragon Queen."

The words were sincere, and Jon lowered his gaze in deference. Once, he'd commanded men like Manderley from this very hall. Now, he lived to serve them as best a man of the Night's Watch could muster in this day and age.

"If it please you your grace, I would like to run the tariffs with you now. It may take only half an hour at the most."

"Tariffs," Sansa repeated. She looked at Jon, whose eyes were turning blank. "The benefits of an independent kingdom – we set tariffs at White Harbour, rather than obeying the mandates from the Iron Throne."

Jon smirked. "I'll leave you to it."

"As long as you don't leave without another farewell."

Jon said nothing, hearing the sincerity in her voice, and the sadness in her eyes. So far, they'd gone without mentioning Arya, whose ship had never again been sighted on these shores. They had avoided Bran, who ruled from a wooden throne, and whose interests were in keeping six kingdoms together. They had avoided Eddard, and Catelyn, and Robb, and Rickeon, and everyone else they had known. All who had left them, before both of them had been left alone in the world.

"Your grace," he said.

The Red Wolf nodded and departed, leaving the Crow alone. Deep in the hall of Winterfell.

In halls no longer home.


End file.
